Dancing Queen is, if you ask me, the most irresistible piece of pure pop fluff to come out of the 1970s. I could listen to it forever. If I were stranded on a desert island, and I had a really tiny iPod with room for only five works of music, one would be the Beatles' I Want to Hold Your Hand, one would be Stevie Wonder's As, one would be the Bach Chaconne, one would be Sibelius' Fifth Symphony, and the last would be Dancing Queen.

So don't go telling me I hate ABBA. I don't hate ABBA. I love ABBA. If ABBA invited me to a big fat Greek wedding and gave Meryl Streep permission to belt out their songs as though she's hyperthyroid? I would so be there. Especially if it's set on a glittering island in the Mediterranean peopled by laughing Greeks and hunks in flippers who come out of the sea singing.

Oooh, and Pierce Brosnan would arrive, and he'd be just so, so handsome, and sometimes he would sing, too, and I wouldn't even mind if he kind of croaked out his tunes like Bruce Springsteen with a squirrel in his lap.

But the wedding — it would be beautiful, except for that bit about the bride (that would be Amanda Seyfried) not knowing her dad's identity seeing how her mom (that would be Streep) slept with three fellas in a row 20 years ago, and she isn't exactly sure which one seeded the pumpkin patch, if you get my drift. In the running are Brosnan, Colin Firth and Stellan Skarsgård, and the bride invites them all to her wedding and secretly puts them up in her mother's villa's goat house. That's right: goat house.

So anyway, once I was there — on this sparkling Greek isle with Meryl and Pierce and hunks in flippers — I would probably start drinking, because 1) I don't usually, but there's a squirrel in Bruce's lap, and 2) that seems to be what everyone else is doing, judging from their behavior. It would be like they all just skipped the actual-wedding part of the wedding and went straight on into the drunken-reception part, with sloshed guests and writhing bodies and some not-too-prudent windmill maneuvers on the dance floor.

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Then Meryl and her best friends (they would be Julie Walters and Christine Baranski) would hop up on stage and do a girl-group thing in platform shoes and flared lamé coveralls, and the crowd would go wild with ecstasy.

At that point, I would begin to suspect that this entire wacky-nuptials-on-ABBA affair might be based on Catherine Johnson's smash musical Mamma Mia! (itself based on a Gina Lollobrigida movie), whose cheerful Swedish poppiness is pushing five years on Broadway and has been seen worldwide by 30-some million people. This new interpretation — call it a film, for argument's sake — would mark the feature debut of stage director Phyllida Lloyd, who helmed the play's West End inception, and it would resemble a series of super-tacky sunstroke hallucinations set to an ABBA mix-tape.

As a movie it might suffer from flat-footed direction and lurching segues, not to mention an outlandish indulgence of bug-eyed theatrical overacting.

But I can just hear the songs — Streep and Brosnan warbling those irresistible strains of S.O.S, Baranski and Walters singing Dancing Queen into sticks of antiperspirant, Streep intoning the title cut as she clambers through a trapdoor into the goat house. She's a more-than-decent singer (so are Seyfried, with her hummingbird vibrato, and Firth, with his sweet folkie tenor), and I'm sure she'd have a blast hamming it up. Go, Meryl! Go, nutty Greeks! Go, ABBA!

Anyway, who wouldn't overdo it a little, or maybe a lot, maybe to the point of profound lifelong regret, at a wedding that ends with Waterloo? If you're invited, you might as well enjoy yourself. Just don't say I didn't warn you. And don't you dare say I hate ABBA.